


How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?

by GreyBlueSkies21



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Also The Danvers Have A Three Kids?, F/M, I Blame Tumblr, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Need More Lena In This Show, I Refuse To Belive That She Is Just "Okay", She Got Freaking Kidnapped, This Explores That, enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 04:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13240095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyBlueSkies21/pseuds/GreyBlueSkies21
Summary: Later, when she’s working through reports, Lena thinks that if you decide to sleep with your best friend’s brother, someone should really give you a handbook as to how to properly do it.In which the Danvers had two children when Kara arrived.He and Lena deal with the carnage that surrounds them the only way they know how.





	How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?

* * *

  

As much as I love the writing in this show, I was ticked off as to how they just wrote off Lena's feelings.  Aside from mommy issues and being friends with Kara, she does nothing and serves no plot purpose. This is my attempt to explore that exactly how she would have dealt with all the shit life has handed her in the six months between seasons 2 and 3.

 Enjoy.

 

* * *

 

 

The two of them are a blurred, tangled mess of bodies and liquor.

His voice surrounds her warm and steady, with a hint of an accent. An accent stolen from a demon he won’t talk about.

They never talk much anyway. They’ve never needed to.

The work is silent and unnerving. It builds them up and tears them down with the slightest touch.

Hands find her hips, push her up on top of her desk, papers trailing in they’re wake. A force of nature, unstoppable and raw.

Oh, her mother would freak if she saw this.

The hot breaths and tangled lips and rigid bodies.

But, her mother isn’t here. So, she tips the bottle back and smashes her lips into his.

There’s no time like now, right?

                                                                                                           <>

  
He came Monday night. Gave her lab reports for a test she was running.

Hair slightly damp from the rain outside, damp from the fog that never quite leaves the city.

He didn’t even get to put the files down before her lips were on his.

He left Tuesday morning, a blueprint carrier in his hand. Looked so normal, like a friend helping her with a project.

No one knows that he carries nothing but secrets and promises. Why’s and why not, broken people with broken bridges and whiskey shots in the night, awkward stares in the morning. Insecurities and questions left unanswered in the wake of their actions.

People expect files in that carrier and she doesn’t give them a reason not to.

                                                                                                          <>

  
He’s out of town when someone decides to send a bomb to her office. Ends up blowing the right arm of her head of security.

She’d say she’s bitter. She'd say she's bitter and angry and furious, but she really doesn’t have the energy to feel anything besides numb at this point.

She ends up ditching Kara. Wonderful, bright, well-meaning Kara gets ditched with an excuse about budget reports that only she would buy.

She buys a bottle of something cheap and fiery at a corner store where they don’t know her name. Sits at the edge of town and downs the whole thing.

Wishes someone else was there to share the scorching fire with her.

She drives home full of booze and rage. Drunk out of her mind.

So drunk she nearly kills a squirrel.

Ironically, that ends up grounding her more than the spirits ever did.

  
                                                                                                            <>

  
The next time they see each other, she’s the world biggest idiot. Went to be a heroic moron and help someone from getting crushed.

Like it’s any other Thursday morning.

(Which for them, it ironically is. Something always happens on Thursdays.)

It’s a regular Thursday morning and she’s facing the end of a barrel.

The barrel of a gun. A cold, daunting gun with black peering eyes that separates mountains of secrets, ghosts, and primal turmoil exposed in late night escapades.

The gun lowers as soon as it was raised, and he’s standing in front of her, muscled arm protecting her from monsters she can’t begin to understand.

That night, they crash into the bookcase. Books topple off, a vase cracks at they’re feet. They’re a frenzy of limbs and furious lips and unfamiliarly familiar skin.

It’s incongruous, hot, pungent and raw. The inside of his mouth tastes like lies and the empty bottle of wine that lies at their feet. They don’t speak, don’t ask. It’s like an unspoken arrangement created through circumstance and frustration. Rules to a game they didn’t know they were playing.

Probably didn’t even want to play.

His smells of cheap cigarette smoke and cold biting air, broken promises and shadows on the wall. She ends up ripping a hole in his shirt.

For the first time in her life, she questions.

She truly has no idea how they got to here.

(And doesn’t care to find out)

                                                                                                        <>

  
  
She doesn’t replace the vase.

(It was present from her mother, so it’s not like she even liked it.)

  
                                                                                                        <>

  
He’s out of town again and she’s telling herself she’s not going to get drunk again. She won't be weak. Imperfect.

Instead, she drives to the edge of town. To a memorial for all the people her brother killed.

Ignores the fact that it was her idea to build it and screams into oblivion.

But, at least she didn’t get drunk, right?

Progress.

                                                                                                            <>

  
It’s only happened twice. A fact she keeps reminding herself.

The first time was oddly familiar like she knew him better than she knew herself. Manicured fingers touched scars that have never really healed, stories of ghosts and shells and people that have never really gone away.

Gentle, tender and knowing, it was like child’s play.

The second time was unexpected mayhem. Colliding frustration and desperation coiled into a well-oiled fight for dominance, a jumble of booze, heat and blurred words. Gentle movements thrown out of the window, skin rubbed raw and bruised.

But other than those two time, it’s just drinking.

Two broken people huddled next to each other in the middle of a cold office floor, passing back the first bottle they find.

Sometimes it’s wine.

But they’ve never actually talked to each other during these nights, so she’s never bothered to ask him his preference.

So, she mainly just brings scotch or whiskey. Or whatever liquor burns worse.

(One drunk night, they’re sprawled on her couch and she asks him what he likes. Ignores the burning in her throat when he replies her favorite kind and drowns it out with another type of burn.)

She tells herself it’s only happened twice.

And is only one-quarter convinced that it won’t happen again.  
                        

                                                                                                         <>

  
It does happen again. The fact is inevitable, strange and fulfilling.

Any other alternative is fraudulent and desperate.

  
                                                                                                         <>

  
The next time they see each other, it’s at an office party. It’s a freaking office party, that he’s only attending because he’s a “work colleague”. He’s in a suit, she’s in a dress and constantly reminding herself that it’s only happened three times.

Then they end up giving some half-assed excuse to their dates and proceed to shove themselves into a closet.

Experienced hands lock the door, shadows of red party lights that creep under the door give them enough light to know which body is which.  
They don’t have any alcohol but end up not needing it, distance, impatience, and rage driving their chaotic movements

He lifts her up on the shelf that they both pray won’t break, presses her shoulder blades hard against the rough surface. Her eyes are closed when skin meets the painted brick wall, pricks of pain radiating from the spot. Returns the favor with fingerprints on his back.

Halfway through the next song he suddenly stops moving, breathless, with an odd look on his face.

The look asks questions, bitter and empty. Questions she doesn’t have answers to. She can give him so half-truth, a lie. But he knows her too well, maybe better than she knows herself. He’ll never buy.

The look lasts only a second.

And they’re at it again.

Later, when the party’s died down and everything is quiet, she thinks about the rules made for their little game, questions and lopsided grins early in the morning.

Lip-stained wine glasses and uncoordinated movements. Breathless promises and words that die on the tip of the tongue.

Most importantly, she thinks about how much better her dress looked on the floor than it ever did on her.

And reminds herself it’s only happened four times.

  
                                                                                                       <>

  
The fifth and sixth time go by, each one more desperate than the last. One by one by one by one, they tear her down worse than the previous.

 

                                                                                                       <>

  
The seventh time, she tells herself, is the last.

Papers lie at they’re feet, scrunched by quick movements and rough actions.

Ten minutes in and she pushes him back, handprints left on the skin of his collarbone. She doesn’t give him time to react, she just keeps pushing, pushing and pushing and pushing, until he’s tripped over the coffee table, scattering glasses and chess pieces in his wake.

She’s panting hard, shallow breaths that replace normal breathing. He hasn’t gotten up from where he’s fallen, his face a perfect picture of shock. She rams a scream down her throat, choking on terror and questions she didn’t want to answer. Homicidal maniacs and shadows and things she can’t control.

His hand finds her shoulder, concern drawn over his face, and she suddenly hates him for even getting up. Hates this kind man that’s everything she wants him to be and nothing she expected, hates the fact that he cares. Leo cared and that drove him mad. Jack cared and he’s dead. She’s a lethal Midas with everything she touches left to wither and die, a cold effect of a bitter cycle that consumes her life.

Eyes find her again, blue against green, and she’s back to hating him. Hating him for being there. Hating herself for poisoning him. She shrugs his hand off, anger radiating off her. She’s flames and ice, hot and cold, everything and nothing all at once.

He breathes out her name  _"Lena.",_ gentle and sweet. Sweet poison that wrecks her as much as it builds her up.

Hours pass. Days and minutes and months and years. An eternity passes in a single second, a single second before she can look him in the eye. Chest heaving panic replaces the blood in her veins, and she’s straining to breathe again. Lungs become mush, empty sacs that breathe without the will of wanting to.

Robotic and automatic.

She’s unraveling, devoured by responsibilities that she, at the moment, frankly couldn’t care less of, hesitantly stuck between what she wants and what is right.

Warm fingers catch her wrist, warm fingers around cold skin. Flames on ice.

The world spins and it takes a second before she realizes she’s crying, images of wine bottles, chess pieces and pretty faces a blur behind a waterfall. Images degrade, sound grows distant, everything falls apart until she’s spinning and reeling, spinning and reeling, watching a fog of colors tear her down.

Spinning and spinning and reeling and spinning.

Reeling and spinning.

She’s out before she knows it.

                                                                                                           <>

  
When she comes too, it’s six in the morning. The office is dead and quiet, except for the light hum of a distant of an air condition unit.

She blinks, rubbing the sleep out of her eye with the heel of her hand. A faint trace of a kiss lingers on her forehead.

The room is fixed and tidy, exactly like it had been before he arrived.

To her left is a bottle and two aspirin, provided for the hangover they both know she’s going to have.

As it turns out, the seventh time was the last.

(Until he comes back a week later with a dead look in his eye, murmuring about how it's all his fault. About him not being fast enough. He comes back a week later completely wrecked, with a new scar and a bottle of cheap wine and she’s left counting to eight and nine. Building her up and tearing her down.)

 

 


End file.
